


An Easy Life

by Cocohorse



Category: A Month in the Country (1987), A Month in the Country - J. L. Carr
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28471641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cocohorse/pseuds/Cocohorse
Summary: Love. “We’re better off without it if we want an easy life,” he declares to Tom one afternoon. But does he really believe that?"A Month in the Country," but from James Moon's perspective.
Relationships: Tom Birkin/James Moon
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	An Easy Life

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the 1987 film, which I just watched the other day for young, adorable Kenneth Branagh and Colin Firth. I got too upset that there was no actual gay romance between them, so this is what I'm doing on New Years Eve in 2020.
> 
> Don't know if anyone will read this, but if there is anyone, I hope you enjoy it.

There are worse ways to spend a summer.

He could be back in the trenches of France, waiting for weeks as bullets and mud rained down upon him and other good-as-dead men in the blistering heat. 

But this summer, James Moon spends the warm months in a grassy field accompanied by grazing sheep, far off in the small, overlooked town of Oxgodby. He sleeps, or tries to, every night in a white tent that feels much too big for just him, and spends every day digging in a hole, not unlike the trenches. Always looming over his work is an old stone church that draws few people. It does not provide him with the comfort of religion, but at least its daily chimes always interrupt his memories of the war.

It seems fitting that he, the outcast, the disgraced, can call this solitude home.

Here, there is nobody to judge him for his mistakes in the war. His batman — a handsome and kind boy who, like him, needed an escape from the gunfire and screaming — was similarly discharged after being found out. He wonders what has happened to him and his other surviving chaps after the war. 

At least now he has old bones and cracked pots to keep his hands and his mind busy. It is nice to start associating dirt holes not with the bleakness and futility of death, the burying of friends, but with death’s hope and wonders, as he uncovers rich histories and brings to light answers to centuries-old mysteries. In a way, it makes him feel like a hero, a rescuer. It gives him a sense of purpose, him bringing an extended, new life to those that have been laid forgotten by the world. 

He wonders if such care would ever be given to him, if death and history alike would be so kind to him and look upon him with openness and forgiveness, years after he takes his last breath.

Would he be remembered? Or rather, was there anything worth remembering him for?

No, Moon does not think so. And that answer unnerves him. He knows he once wanted to be a hero, but that path had long been cut off by his teenage self after coming to terms with his nature. Who ever heard of a homosexual becoming a hero? Perhaps there were some, but they have long been erased from history’s records. He often finds lonely skeletons twisted in the dirt, and he tries to imagine what their stories were. He wonders if, one day, he will be like them, stowed away and out of sight by society. He feels that the process has already begun, with the difference between now and then being only six feet of dirt.

But he still has time. For now, he enjoys feeling the cool earth in his roughened fingers, the warm smoke of his pipe, the hot burn of his coffee. He learns to not take these things for granted. He promises to himself that he will not do anything that will sacrifice his enjoyment of these little things — even if it means sacrificing real happiness.

Keeping this promise proves difficult when Tom arrives. 

Like Moon, Tom is haunted by the sound of gunshots and the sight of blood. So Moon is forgiving when the man keeps to himself in the church, chipping away at old plaster and paint. Even though the air rings with an unspoken mutual want, neither of them talk about the war because they know that discussing it will not help keep away the nightmares. It almost feels sacrilegious to bring up destruction and decay when they are able-bodied and breathing, when they are in a place that is growing and alive with grass and birds and streams.

But what man, who had seen his own countrymen die over a useless scrap of land, cares about sacrilege? 

To Moon, the only thing that is real and that matters is the blood running through his veins, the heart beating in his chest. And he is very aware of these bodily sensations whenever he is around Tom. Around Tom, he feels alive.

He feels the initial pinpricks of new life during their first conversation in the church. It is one of the few times that Moon has been in it. But talk of a newcomer in the small village peaks his interest, and he finds out that this stranger is a tall man with gentle brown eyes and a soft, stammering voice. His name is Thomas Birkin, from London, and he tells Moon about his project to uncover a medieval painting behind the church’s wall.

“What do you think you’ll find?” Moon questions.

“Judgment, I expect,” Tom replies, straight-faced.

And there, instant camaraderie forms between them, one that wires and hooks them together like little fish caught by life, the unforgiving hunter. They are latched together, by the war, by their projects, by Oxgodby and the summer.

“Look,” Moon then says, smiling. “Why don’t you come down and have a cup of tea before you start?”

So they share tea, in one of Moon’s vases unearthed from his searches for an ancient Saxon basilica. There’s a surprising amount of familiarity and safety in sitting in a tent and drinking with another soldier. When Mossop and the Colonel interrupt their conversation to ask about Moon’s progress on finding the lost grave, Moon lies. Both he and Tom stifle their laughs when the men leave. It’s the start of a summer friendship.

It is also a bittersweet friendship, Moon realizes. It is sweet, in the sense that Moon now has someone to share his lunches, to talk about the artifacts he finds, to joke about the visitors at the church. Even more than just providing company, Tom is easygoing and charming and does not ask much about Moon’s personal life. Moon does not either, and so together they breathe and act like two ordinary people, two ordinary men who are there to do a job, enjoy the sun, and nothing more. 

But that bit is far from the truth — and there is bitterness in knowing that, as much as they pretend, they can never be ordinary. Pain dwells like a ghost within their most casual conversations, nested comfortably in the small silences between words. Trauma coils around their ankles like deadweights in a rising river, threatening to envelop them in a dark wave. In short, the war has gifted them with burdens that prevent them from ever fully embracing each other’s companionship and, perhaps, even love.

_Love._

“We’re better off without it if we want an easy life,” he declares to Tom one afternoon.

The two of them are laying like a pair of bathing cats under the sun. But does he really believe that? His spine shivers and his hands sweat when Tom smiles wistfully in agreement and takes a slow sip of coffee. A butterfly then lands on Tom’s head, which Moon quickly points out, and the two erupt in laughter. Tom’s rare laugh is warm and gentle, like the quiet glow of a dying sunset underneath an ink-black sky. Moon angles his head away, hiding his reddening cheeks.

Despite his best attempts not to, Moon is falling in love.

At first, Moon chalks his growing feelings up to simple and pure lust. He has been alone for so bloody long, and to come to a town where nobody knows his past, cannot judge him for it, and to suddenly befriend a nice, handsome man, similar in story and loneliness, who treats him with the dignity of an equal — well, lust makes sense.

But it is more than just an affliction to his body. His mind and spirit are ravaged. His face flushes with heat while giving Tom a haircut outside his tent. His throat closes tight when Tom blows cigarette smoke into the warm night air. He is seized by a secret joy whenever Tom stops by to update him about the painting’s progress, knowing that he is the first person that Tom turns to, that he is someone that Tom trusts. He is shaken by undisguised pride when Tom noticeably begins to relax — not just around Moon, but around everyone in town and around, most importantly, just himself. There are even fewer cries in the night coming from the belltower. It is to the point that one might say that Tom is, in fact, healing.

“Since you’ve been here,” Moon tells him, some weeks into their friendship, “they’ve almost gone — your twitch, tremor, and stammer.” 

“I haven’t noticed,” Tom says, surprised.

There are also many good things for Moon that come with Tom’s arrival: enjoyable conversations, valuable artifacts, and a new, refreshing reason to wake up every day. But there is still the ever-present specter of nighttime. At night he is unable to surrender to the dark thoughts that build up in the daytime and wait, in the shadows behind his eyelids, for him to inevitably succumb to unconsciousness. Several times a week Moon awakens thrashing and screaming under his blankets, as if possessed by the dead he sleeps upon.

Tom asks about the dreams during one of their afternoon breaks from work, and the two of them, in an uncharacteristic show of openness, share their most recurring dreams. For Tom, he is crawling through the mud of no man’s land, going nowhere as bombs fall around him, and eventually he is dragged down and suffocated. For Moon, he is running through a devastated battlefield, hearing the dying shrieks of his friends, and no matter where he looks, he cannot find them. 

“Hmm,” Tom murmurs, when they eventually fall into silence. “I’m going to the river for a bathe.”

Moon comes with him. They kick off their shoes and socks, roll up their trousers, and wade into the cool water of the river. The water seems to wash away the mud and memories clinging to their skins. Eventually Moon takes off his shirt and trousers and dives in, and Tom follows, laughing. Afterwards, they spend an hour laying on the warm river bank. Moon shares stories about his first digs, and Tom listens closely and chuckles at the right moments. Tom recounts his recent attempt at lay-preaching for the Reverend, and Moon teases him for it. It is just the two of them, their bodies and their stories and the sun.

After that afternoon by the river, Moon’s nightmares of bloody hands singed by gunpowder evolve into dreams of careful, steady hands flecked with paint.

Falling in love with his friend is an unfortunate development, especially when Moon knows that Tom has his sights on someone else. The man spends more and more time each day with the Reverend’s much-younger and very beautiful wife, Alice Keach. She is the sort of woman that any man could love, even Moon himself, with her sweet disposition and natural inquisitiveness. When Tom is not busy working, he takes walks with Alice in the woods and invites her in the church to see his progress. Moon does not know what topics they discuss, but it must be very interesting and very personal, since they spend many hours lost in conversation, pressed shoulder to shoulder together.

It is a familiar, burning sensation, wanting someone at the wrong time, at the wrong place. Tom is interested in women, is interested in a _specific_ woman, and, as Moon eventually learns, is even _married_ to one. Even if all of that can be put aside, Moon is only in Oxgodby for four weeks, for a temporary commission, and will have to move on to wherever the next job is. He is there to find the remains of an excommunicated man, not to develop an attachment to a Londoner who sleeps in the belltower of an old church. 

Not wanting to repeat past mistakes and lose this new friendship, Moon becomes a self-saboteur. He frequently asks about Tom’s relationship with Alice. He openly reminds Tom of her beauty and hints that Tom should pursue her. Like a self-flagellating monk, he smiles and nods when Tom concurs and continues to see her.

Tables ultimately turn when Tom becomes curious and asks Moon about his circumstances. Moon shrugs and says, “I’ve never really met the right woman. Luckily for her.” He states it in a way that blames the war, but he wonders if Tom can read through his words. For a while, this explanation suffices. Still, Moon is careful to keep his Military Cross hidden away to avoid any further questions.

But finding out about Moon’s past is inevitable, and it comes the day that Tom visits Ripon. When Tom returns, his demeanour is different. He stays in the church and does not talk to Moon. The next day, he approaches Moon for some issue regarding the painting, and Moon instantly sees it in his eyes — the sudden clearness that comes with knowing.

From that day on, it is as if a wide canyon has formed between them. There is no hope of crossing it, Moon knows. But he tries anyway. Later, over a drink, he swallows his humiliation and confronts Tom about his military service. He confesses that he has spent his last six months in service away from the fighting. During that, he lost his friends, men he could have saved, and is only left with an undeserved medal and a lifetime’s worth of regret.

“I’m a little bit behind the bend,” Moon admits, and crushing helplessness thickens his voice. “Always will be, I expect.”

Things do not go back to normal between him and Tom, but at least everything is now out in the open.

With this, Moon finally decides that it is time to dig up the coffin he was tasked to find. Next week, he and Tom take horses carrying their supplies to the edge of the church’s fields. They locate the coffin easily. 

As Moon sets up various devices around the dig spot, Tom tries his hand at shoveling dirt. It is the most physical activity the man has done all summer, and yet it seems to rejuvenate something in him. A couple hours pass, and Tom does not slow down, as if being forced to dig a trench. He pants but still waves down Moon’s offers to switch. Over time, the dirt stains his rolled-up sleeves, and several beads of sweat form on his face and his unbuttoned chest. Moon finds himself chewing too hard on the end of his pipe.

The coffin is finally unearthed and opened, and in it, as they expect, lies the missing man. But what surprises them to see is the bones bearing a necklace with a unique pendant. From the pendant they determine that the man was not a Christian, but a Muslim. In a flash of revelation, they understand why the church had buried him far away, to be forgotten — until now. The two of them burst with pride at their discovery. Together they gawk and grin, for once unafraid by the sight of the dead.

Maybe with time things can go back to normal between them, but it is too late. 

It is the end of the summer, and Tom shows Moon the finished, fully uncovered church painting. Upon closer examination of the piece’s motifs, they realize it is painted by the man in the coffin. Despite being an unbeliever, Moon is struck by an overflowing wave of reverence. Here is the work of a Muslim who converted to Christianity to save his own life, a man who hid his true nature to create something beautiful that, despite being incomplete and hidden, would last for centuries.

Staring at the work, Moon feels no judgment from the painting but rather empathy for the painter. He wonders if one day, he too will have the mystery of his past uncovered and unjudged. He thinks of the painter laying in his newly unearthed coffin, wearing the Muslim crescent necklace, and how in death, the man never relinquished his faith.

If only he could do the same, Moon thinks. His eyes wander from the painting and fall upon the painting’s restorer with the same reverence and wonder. If only he was brave.

“Both our mysteries solved,” Moon finally says.

To which Tom simply suggests, “It’s the same mystery, isn’t it?” 

It seems that they were always connected from the very beginning.

The end comes abruptly. They have both found what they came for — the basilica, the painting — and now comes the part that Moon dreads.

Leaving. Moon never gets used to it, even after many experiences with it during the war. For fate to throw his path across another man’s for just a brief, split-second moment in their lives, for them to meet and form a kinship, only to separate and continue alone on their lives’ journeys — he considers it one the greatest cruelties of living. How can a man sever his bonds as easily as he builds them? How can he pretend as if his soul had never been touched and changed by another?

It is Moon’s last day in Oxgodby, and he takes his time to pack. Still, it is too-quick work, and he finishes in an hour; he does not own many things, having never accumulated much throughout his life except scars and the occasional artifact. He sets his tent and bags in a small pile along the dirt road. He looks back at the grassy field that was his home for the summer, and the only traces of his presence ever being there are the holes. He knows in time they will disappear.

The only thing left to do is to say goodbye. He takes his last walk up the grassy path to the church. As usual, the man is inside with his painting, a sight that Moon will dearly miss. This last look at Tom is a nice one. Morning sunlight from the church’s windows falls upon Tom, who stands in the center of the pews, and bathes his brown hair in a soft golden glow. He looks young, strong, happy, and Moon wonders what it might be like to know him in another lifetime. Seeing Moon, Tom flashes a half-smile at him, and Moon feels as though a dagger has plunged into his own heart.

Ever the soldier, Moon battles on. He hands Tom a letter from the postman and watches as Tom takes a look at the address.

“It’s from my wife, Vinny,” Tom snorts. “Probably wants to start all over again. She usually does.”

Moon stuffs his hands into his pockets and fidgets with them as if he is looking for something. “And will you?” 

“I usually do.”

Silence stretches between them, neither of them really breathing.

“So where are you off to?” Tom finally asks.

“Basra, Baghdad.” Moon looks around the church like he is taking it in for the final time. “Big dig going on over there. I’d like to get in on it.”

“Nice.”

They are quiet again.

“What about you?” Moon asks.

“Oh, I don’t know.” There is unease and uncertainty in Tom’s voice. “Wait for another church, I suppose.”

Moon manages a smile. “You’ll never find another one like this.” 

“I know."

Moon looks away again, his stomach churning. He does not know if they are talking about the same thing.

“Been a summer, hasn’t it?” Tom says softly.

Moon does not reply. He stares down at the dust on the church’s floors. There is no way that he can put into words what this summer has been or what Tom’s friendship has meant to him. And there is no reason to. Words cannot stop him from leaving like he always does. He is no hero, he is not brave, he always turns tail and runs away from his battles before he can get hurt.

“So, anyway,” Moon starts, and he turns around to leave. “Well, I —” 

He is cut off by Tom’s voice.

“Moon.”

He stops, looks back, and sees that Tom has taken a step after him.

“Birkin?”

Tom is frozen, staring, blinking, his mouth opening and closing until words finally come out.

“I — I don’t quite know what to say.”

From the look on Tom’s face, Moon knows. 

“How about a proper goodbye?”

It is almost too easy and natural when Moon puts his hands on Tom’s face, too quick and chaste when Moon kisses him on the lips.

Moon’s suspicions were right: Tom tastes like sweet milk and warm coffee. He also smells like fresh grass and old paint, and his touch feels to Moon like the ancient church to the devout — a sanctuary.

It is a moment of complete peace that disappears when Moon pulls away. Fear seizes him, and he knows that he has committed an act of desecration to Tom and their friendship.

“Can I join you?” Tom asks, and he is wide-eyed, breathless, and beautiful. “I’ll tell Vinny that I’ve found a — another job.”

The world spins around Moon. He flushes and sputters, “With me? To Basra and Baghdad? Why?”

“You’re right. I won’t find another church like this.” Tom smiles faintly. “But that’s all right, I think. I’ve found you.”

Moon stares at Tom. Here is a man who is not tired of Moon’s ramblings about bones, who is not bothered by Moon’s military records, who does not mind Moon’s silences in the day and nightmares in the evening, who does not care that Moon is not brave nor a hero. Here is a man, who sees and understands Moon as he is, and accepts him. Moon lets out a choked laugh of disbelief and delight. 

“We do make quite a good team, eh? This time, we’ll find you a lovely mosque, with a secret Christian mosaic.” 

“I would like that.”

Maybe he will not be remembered by history, but by somebody who loves him. And as long as Tom loves him, Moon does not need an easy life.

The two of them smile and blush, and together they walk out of the church and into the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Kudos and comments are much appreciated. I need to talk about these boys with somebody!


End file.
